Point of no return
by thousand2one
Summary: People die, myths live among them, demons thrive on both, and only regret lasts forever. One yearning for peace between ghosts and best intentions. Senju Hashirama & Uchiha Madara, interdependent scenes, yaoi/shounen-ai


**A/N:** Fist of all, I'd like to state that this fic was initially written as a series of interdependent drabbles/scenes, but eventually due to circumstances I had to roll it up into a single fic with more or less straight plotline. With that however, some scenes are still pretty much independent and serve more like a setting than an actual plot gear. Narration is mixed up sometimes, but mostly its Hashirama's pov. Enjoy! and R&R of course

**Characters:** Senju Hashirama & Uchiha Madara, hashimada of sorts.

**Rating:** M for some sexual references

* * *

><p>I<p>

In fall he sees him for the first time. Adorned with stray leaves of deep warm hues, as if cloaked with scorching embers which seem to shed and burn right through his strikingly pale skin, he stands on top of the cliff, and the young man cannot help but feel the subtle - almost non-existent - but still ever-present awe leaving its traces in his own mind as he watches _him_, for from this vantage point the man truly looks like a king of the world, serene stance and distant, disdainful gaze fixed upon his troops. A sweep of the moment and attack flashes in front of him, swift and efficient just as reputation of his clan demands, peaks and disappears just as quickly, engulfed in blazing inferno of man's technique. _Just as they said_, thinks Hashirama.

So at least that part of the rumor held a grain of truth after all, or so the young man muses; his curiosity eager to pierce the veil of _yarn_ around the man people claimed to rival his very own power. An array of sounds brought to life with but a smooth movement of lips – and yet the fear and the mystery stemmed from this very word. "Uchiha Madara". His name fell from under Hashirama's breath in coarse tones; raw determination barely hiding something else in his voice.

And there he was, a solitary silhouette on top of that cliff in midst of fire and smoke, _evaporated blood_ and thick veil of nearly tangible myth. Season suits him, older Senju thinks. Autumn leaves make blood stains look like nothing but a flamboyant decoration designed by an invisible artist's hand.

* * *

><p>II<p>

As all the strong of this world, Madara has always been surrounded by rumors. First time he hears his name from an allied clan two years ago and it's uttered with both fear and awe, "_just sixteen and already took over the clan, and no wonder, he's a demon's breed_". If anything, the rumors around him turned and multiplied like venomous spiders, creeping in anywhere and everywhere they could, settling themselves firmly in people's minds and then on their lips, poisoning both with fright. And so, the rumor gained new _absolutely harrowing_ details, and on and on, and turned to a myth; the latter to Hashirama's mind would inevitably make it to a legend, and history will bury the last grain of truth under layers of numerous exaggerations and folklore-inspired superstitions.

Concerning Madara, the myth had it that Uchiha clan leader was in fact, a half-demon, a malicious spawn cursed by gods for his pride but gifted with a power no mortal could dream of: power to bend minds to his own will and unleash the hellfire of underworld itself. Though back then, standing face to face with him on scorched grounds, avidly studying his foe's stature through smoke, ash and stray leaves, he couldn't help but think how far from the truth that myth actually appeared.

Pale and delicate, no taller than a kunoichi and no older than his younger brother, the boy was nothing like an old-era malevolent spirit. His eyes, no longer disdainful, studied him with intense attention and bewilderment. His patrician face flushed, mouth slightly agape in something that seemed like sheer disbelief, causing beads of sweat to form on his temples and stream down his ash-covered cheekbones, soaking into his wild mess of hair. "_Fear..?_", flashed in Hashirama's mind, "He knows who I am...?" And then - he probably couldn't explain why even to himself - he smiled cheekily at him, part noting his own repute, part signifying his confidence, and part because... in the end, Uchiha was just_ a human_. The smile did the trick. Whatever it stirred, the younger man gritted his teeth, baring fangs. Within the dark of his shadow framed face, his eyes lit up with an ominous carmine, and his body darted forward as if he'd triggered a hard coiled spring. How dear Hashirama would come close to regretting having discarded the myth so soon. How ravenous he would later find himself to be for this myth.

At the end of the day, he simply wishes he fought Uchiha earlier.

* * *

><p>III<p>

Carmine on white. Blood on the snow.

For months of fighting he would regret taking myth lightly many times, yet all the same he would never regret crossing paths with Uchiha. His prowess, brilliance and sophisticated ability to keep a seasoned shinobi, even more so a leader of a _thousand skills_ clan, on his tiptoes never once ceased to bring about astonishment – and in some very twisted way within Hashirama's mind – satisfaction. The curve of his mouth as his surprisingly smooth voice utters orders during the heat and roar of battle – a dozen of Senju's highly-polished and well-thought-out maneuvers, all mirrored flawlessly. Both artifice and passe grace showcased to him, but never a back-stab, never an unfair game. And still he wants more.

A rival clan. An army of red-eyed half demons - unleashing fire and soul-tormenting illusions while marching through the land and posing an insurmountable challenge to his men whenever an enemy lord hired them - was exhilarating, depleting, and on many accounts - so highly unfavorable. It was telling on his people and their morale and inevitably their integrity. And if it wasn't for the clan, Senju contemplated, he would have actually _relished _in the rivalry with, admittedly, his arch-nemesis. His perfect counter. An element that drove him – _bat-shit crazy_, as Tobirama would put it sometime later - to polish his strategies and abilities. A hazardous element that set him free from limitations, for a while making his prudence get thinner in his chase to know everything to this man. In his most shameful dreams he simply wishes the feeling would last. In war, in peace, no matter.

But clan was involved. Lives were involved and it simply wasn't within his heart's capacity or his authority to be self-indulgent or egoistical at price of his very own people. The only thing that consoled Hashirama, or more accurately, that little bit of selfishness deep within that part of him that didn't stand for clan leader, was that he couldn't put an end to this single-handed; after all peace can be forged only with both sides willing. Only the Uchihas proved to be too strong to be defeated, _demon-possessed_ as his people used cite the myth, thriving on the ashes of battle, drinking blood from corpses and like dark valkyries ripping souls out of the wounded and filling moonlit sky with chilling war cries. He wondered if Madara himself approved of the myth, or perchance was a mastermind behind it and given his immense power – his mastery over cursed bloodline - it was no wonder all Uchihas were black-coated with a wide brush, and it was not all that implausible. He wondered if bloodshed truly excited that man, just as ubiquitous rumors had it. It would be preposterous to admit to himself that deep inside he wished it was him who held Madara's interest in battles; but the thought _is_ preposterous so he doesn't, shaking it off his mind like an inappropriate obsession.

For months of fighting he learned that no matter how reckless his rival appeared at a first glance, he never once was – more than in one sense – _shortsighted; _the true reason of course was yet unclear, still Hashirama considered it perfectly evident – or maybe he just anxiously trusted to have this much in common with Madara – that the other man puts greater value in his people than one could suspect of a _demonic half-breed_. He wondered if Madara would ever agree to trade the hazard of war for an uncertainty of peace-time.

This winter however gave him a glimmer of hope. He only wished it came earlier.

* * *

><p>IV<p>

Hope came with official one-week armistice request and the word that Madara's younger brother died; a mourning period unquestionable. Hashirama on his part experienced an array of emotions when a dark-haired delegation handed him a rice parchment scroll filled with neat writing. There was surprise, for he had no clue Madara had a brother, it was something that never seeped outside his clan; there was an instant suspicion as well - it's Uchiha he's dealing after all, their cunning nature is to be tread lightly, - however he makes an exception and drives it away this time. He has a younger brother too, for the first time he thinks he can relate to Madara and say he knows how the other man feels and what is there inside his mind now. At that thought glow of satisfaction washes over within him and he instantly feels distinctly amoral in taking a weird joy in what is undoubtedly a tragedy to the whole clan. He stares into the scroll blankly, trying to sort out the buzzing hive of his thoughts and rather absently notes to himself that Madara's signature in its corner is quite intricate. Perhaps it serves as a measure of security, for he all-too-well knows that the Sharingan, the legendary "Copy Wheel Eye", didn't earn its reputation for nothing. _Maybe this is the moment..._

Hashirama slips back to reality only when a tall dark-haired Uchiha with impenetrable facial expression and scar over his lip asks him rather dryly, "What say you, Senju-_sama_?"

The honorific makes him cringe on the inside. He realizes he took too long gazing in the lace of letters as if self-righteously contemplating whether he should follow the unwritten law of shinobi and show grace to his enemy. His head snaps up and he stumbles over his words for the first time in his life, as if perfectly responding to a provocation.

"Uh.. surely we accept. This is truly..."

He struggles to find the correct word in order to not sound as if he were mock-exaggerating or being too personal, "...Unfortunate. Would you please take our official condolences to your leader?"

At these words, he notes that the face of a shorter Uchiha who is standing next to the delegate leader contorts in what he deems to be a fit of anger. The leader's face, however, remains just as dispassionate. It's only when he speaks through gritted teeth that it is possible to hear the venom in his voice.

"Certainly. We shall inform Madara right away".

Hashirama signs the scroll, and messengers turn around with no goodbyes or bows, or any other common courtesies for that matter, and head toward the tent's opening. The lack of honorific this time leaves him a little baffled, but he decides to disregard it right now, for there is something more important in the his thread of thoughts. "Wait," he says, interlocking his fingers and resting chin on his now folded hands.

The older man freezes with his hand on a flap of a tent and slowly turns around, his eyes questioning him with impatience and distrust. "Is it possible", he mutters in his fingers, "..to request an audience with Madara-sama?"

At that, the short one pales. The older man just scoffs and shakes his head neither in negation nor assertion. "You _could_ attend the funeral as a sign of _good-will and respect_ to our clan", a creepy grin crawls on his face. " After all, tradition does not forbid it. But I trust you understand there is no guarantee he agrees to see you, should you manage to find him after the ceremony that is."

And Hashirama understands. He understands the spite and vindication, and yet he needs to know for certain but is just unsure if he could outright ask _would it be wrong to consider this death as his final straw? _Instead he says, "Yes that will do, we will send a messenger. Thank you. When is the funeral ceremony held?"

"A day from now", comes the answer.

Once they leave, he arches back and turns his gaze to the roof of the tent. Through the weave of fabric, he can see tiny dots of sunlight outside.

* * *

><p>V<p>

He writes it over and over struggling with himself and his words which now seem to him incredibly gibing and halfhearted. Never in his life he thought he would trip over the words "_peace_" and "_treaty_" so many times. Never once he thought he could be so unsettled with emotion and concourse of his thoughts that he would make so many mistakes and turn orthography into a joke of a notion. Does this beseem him? To use the fleeting moment of cease-fight to lobby his clan's interest? Thought stings and sends a throbbing wave through his temples; his palm's heel rubs the spot in circles as if trying to sooth his inflamed mind. And isn't it a cruel joke of fate that this truce as fleeting as it is, in no small part is undoubtedly Senju's..._fault_? For it's caused by a loss, and isn't it detestable that he, the very opposite of the one called _demon's spawn, _essentially uses it to his advantage to influence a man who's brother died – no matter how, yet without doubts – because of warfare his clan entertains just as well?

He sighs exasperatedly, and threads fingers through his long silky chocolate hair, assessing all arguments for and against. Light rays slice through tent's flap and make beaded curtain look like a radiant string of pearls. Wintry air circulating through the interior space makes him shift his ankles uncomfortably and glance at barely alive coals in the brazier. He casts a look at the parchment again, carefully following each line and critically thinking over each and every word. Somewhere in the middle of reading his eyes nonchalantly shift to the side of his palm and he notices ink stains on his fingertips; some of indigo colored liquid is under his nails and now he looks as if his fingers are frostbitten. A little below on the parchment there's an ugly thumb-shaped stain and he scoffs at it and tosses desecrated sheet aside merely because the sight disquiets him. _Still not used to writing official documents_, he thinks.

* * *

><p>VI<p>

It is predictable that the elders at the meeting demand a military action instead of peaceful negotiations. Predictable, since old and gray men no longer shed their blood on the field of battle, no longer know the terrors of struggle for survival; _they think_, Hashirama ponders to his displeasure, _they know it better from behind the safe frontier, won at the cost of our flesh and blood_. At the end of a day, the shinobi war is unequivocally their fault, their avarice and near-sightedness years before now added oil to the fire of local conflicts until it burst out on a scale of full-fledged war.

He sits just as before, lips pressed against the interlocked fingers, as if trying to hold back aggravated shouts, which threaten to slip out if he takes his wrists away, and listens to the raucous jumble of petty but nonetheless heated disputations over _how they should sabotage the funeral_ and then eliminate all the enemies. And it is predictable that he gives no approval.

"Enough", - he says straitening up like a tree spreading its limbs, his voice calm but firm and commanding. His simple gray robe makes a quiet noise as its folds slide down. "We will not plot foul schemes behind their backs during the period most sacred to our ancestors, for such an act will...dishonor us. Don't you agree?" - he stresses every word as he measures the present with his glare.

An old man, gnarly like a weathered tree trunk, rises from his place and with his voice quivering with feebleness of his age protests in response. "With all due respect, young man, this is most senseless decision. These rats would not be so gracious with us, not to mention all this sudden talk about armistice could be a shrewdly-devised trap just awaiting for us to fall into it. So what is some youngster died, one demon spawn less..." His eyes flare up. For the first time during this urgent meeting, he lets his long-neglected discontent seep into his voice, "Would you say the same about Tobirama?"

The elder shifts on his feet, wavering his hands in a protest, "I would not, but it's not me we are..." Hashirama cuts him short, "It is an act of a rat to hold knife behind its back and stab in the moment of weakness. We are not rats", a tension filled pause followed, "This meeting's over, please leave." He is surprised at how harsh he sounds but shows no sign of it and simply walks off the tent. "You cannot tame the Uchiha," he hears as he takes his leave, "They cannot be bound with seal on a peace treaty as demons make no fair deals".

It is chilling to the bone outside, humid wind quickly freezing the moisture on his skin. Hashirama closes his eyes for a moment and feels the soft sensation of snowflakes touching his hair and turning to water on his forehead. Uchiha and Senju. Oil and water, and yet the very same. The only difference, he thinks, is that the latter are far more pretentious about having demons in their closets.

* * *

><p>VII<p>

He stays up all night, hands stained with all shades of blue but in the end he finds the result gratifying, definitely worth sleepless hours and now benumbed hand. It took him a pile of crumpled papers and all his nails bitten to a mess before he managed to formulate and put down matter impeccably, his word precise and objective to the very end. The early morning meets him sleeping on his desk with strands of his hair scattered all over the burnished wooden surface and a tray of ink carelessly tripped over its edge, dripping its contents on the floor cover below.

* * *

><p>VIII<p>

On the day of the funeral he arrives at Uchiha base camp accompanied only by few of his trusted men.

Stark aura afflicts him right after he passes sharp wooden fence : it is not only the grief distilled in the air, but something far more sinister dwelling within the rows of dark blue tents. The men around, civil as they look right now, shoot him daggers with their eyes, distrustful and somewhat threatening. It was to be expected, he thinks; he's the very head of the enemy, in a sense the very cause of the mourning and the very man who decided to show up right then and there, in a parody of good-will.. He knows how absurd it must look from the side but he dismisses the feeling for his presence bears a greater purpose.

A couple of official bows to signify his presence to Uchiha elders, a properly-worded official apology and offer of condolences and a polite request to have a word with their leader is met with suspicion and sudden but polite rejection. _Madara-san would not see anyone till the ceremony is over. _He nods in response, _it is not his place to appoint ifs and whens. _He will wait_. _He has all the patience in the world to rectify his wrongs for the sake of his clan. Their clans. Madara.

The funeral ceremony of Uchiha is nothing like one of Senju. The latter bury their late in the warm ground, like seeds planted into welcoming soil so that within a course of year they give roots to a new tree, so much as soul making a full cycle comes back to life once again. The former, on the other hand, burn their dead. That very moment he realizes how little he actually knows of Uchiha tradition outside the mythology surrounding his foe, so he can only make guesses at the origin of this custom. He concludes that it may have to do with the fact that Uchihas are said to be a living embodiment of fire itself, eternal flame caged in human form and that by burning corpses they set it free; or maybe they reflect themselves as a phoenix – immortal, born from ashes and coming back to ashes in death only to rise again.

The ceremonial pyre takes place in the center of the temporary settlement, on the ground cleaned from snow and icy crust. The Senju delegation stands a little to the side from gloomy lines of mourning clansmen; the disposition in the second row is an obvious blow to their status and in fact the tradition itself, but Hashirama knows better than to start a squabble over the engineering of the ceremony, if anything he humbly accepts it in his inability to shake off the feelings of guilt and compulsion which settled in his chest sometime around yesterday's evening. From this place he cannot see Madara if he's there that is, but conversely he can see the dead body very well. _Uchiha Izuna_ is the name that he hears amongst the mourning. A svelte body wrapped in a white kimono strikes him with uncanny familiarity. He cannot fully see his face – his eyes are covered with milky-white bandages – and yet he notices the fine line of his jaw, that unmistakable sign of blue blood one would say, and the familiar curve of lips and the same mane of lustrous raven hair, only a little longer and tied up into a ponytail in the back. _So much like him_, and with that thought the sting of guilt resonates with a new force.

An audible clamoring brings him back from the land of memories though, and he understands that the elders' speech seems to be over and it is high time for Madara to give his brother a final farewell. He sees him take a step forward and his breath catches in his throat. For weeks he hasn't seen Uchiha and weeks after he finds him unbelievably changed. He doesn't recognize the former superiority and confidence in his stance. Instead he sees his spine bent as if he's bearing all the weight of the world on his shoulders, his steps uneven, barely holding back from staggering like a broken doll, locks of his midnight hair in disarray; typical Uchiha black attire hanging off him loosely like rags off a scarecrow. A nearby Senju jeers and mutters something along the lines _look at him, what a pitiful sight _and he feels an urge to snap at him but he does not. Instead he stays silent, his eyes fixed on Madara's back.

Just as Madara moves he senses the same sinister aura dwelling among other Uchihas and he finally identifies it as near-hostility, surprisingly enough, directed at Madara. _The guts he has to be the one to do it_, his ears catch somewhere to the left, _condemning his own flesh and blood to doom, sending a blind boy to his demise _is whispered behind, _he is to blame, he gouged his brother's eyes in his quest for power and used them in some unholy ritual _someone utters in front of him. Somebody from the front row hisses at them in a demeaning tone, and he sees the whip of another ponytail, "You there, mind your tongues!" The heard sends chills down his spine, a mix of disbelief and sympathy reflected on his usually stoic collected face.

Madara doesn't utter a single word. He simply stands in front of the carefully arranged heap of logs, his hand clenched in a fist either in attempt to warm up or tackle the persistent and yet such an unfitting for a clan leader emotion. Hashirama watches him closely as he kneels, long sleeves nearly touching the hard cold ground, and even though his head is tilted down he still can see the quivering of his mouth as he quietly says something under his breath. Afterward his fingers swiftly and elegantly lock into a seal and the last farewell is said as a fire technique blossoms from his lips. The flames dance across the fabric, first slowly then faster and faster until it consumes the entire surface and sets white wrappings alight. Madara turns around and takes his place among his family, his expression carefully masked beneath the layers of dark bangs and the silence once again befalls on the gathering. The pyre burns, bursting int oa flury of embers before it finally cracks. Before long there is nothing but ashes left from Uchiha Izuna.

Clothes rustle, voices rise, the steps screech audibly on the fresh snow and by the time he snaps out of his thoughts Madara is gone. He follows the trace of his chakra back to the elders tent, feeling awkward again for inquiring with dumbfounded expression Madara's whereabouts as if it is perfectly normal for an enemy leader to be there and then and casually ask to meet theirs. Deliberately or not, they tell him they do not know, and so he puzzles himself further trying to find that particular chakra signature outside.

* * *

><p>IX<p>

By the time he finds him the sky is all but set afire with sunset, so much like the funeral pyre. The dying sunrays glide over snowy crust of the drop-off and the whole scene is just one picturesque hue and cry. As an exaggerated contrast, Madara's sitting figure seems pitch-black and _not alive; _by all means a part of the landscape, not a human being. Completely still, like a granite-carved statue, completely ignorant of the surrounding cold and gently falling snowflakes.

Looking at his back like this, Hashirama for the first time wonders if the myth was truly born from the yarn of man's foes or whether it came from the distrust and gossip within his very _own_ family. As he does, he catches himself at the thought that he hasn't a single clue as to how to approach this...docile Madara, and if it wasn't for his disconcerting stillness it would have been much easier to make the first step. But he doesn't. He just stands there, parchment in his hand, and thinks only about how human the myth appears. Of all things, he tries to imagine the "why"s and "how"s, to dissect the patterns of Uchiha's unfathomable thinking process, to figure out what precisely drove him to this cliff. Was it guilt? Was he truly guilty of...he bites his lip, recalling the bits of gossip he heard earlier today, and finds the certainty with which they were uttered the most unsettling of all. Was it a desperate attempt to escape the clan? The hostility he felt today was nothing like the lighthearted reproach his clansmen gave him for his mistakes,_ still young they said_. For such an obvious dysfunction, does he truly want to lead them? Do they wish to be lead by him? With that, he thinks of the old men and their opportunistic ways, and the fact that he cannot yet let go of his counterpart since there are still many layers of fiction and assumptions to peel off before he gets to see Madara truly as he is.

So he folds parchment and puts it back inside his cloak, guilt slithering around his solar plexus like a pest. _It would be most inconsiderate_, he thinks.

Having taken few steps forward he makes a cough-like sound in his throat to signify his presence. He is sure Madara hears him, albeit for some reason chooses to ignore. This doesn't discourage him though, and he takes another step, slightly leaning down so that the strand of his sleek hair almost touches the fold on Madara's shoulder.

"Do you mind?"

No reply follows, and he concludes that it probably never will, so he simply sits down next the man. His eyes notice few new details; Madara looks alarmingly alike to a broken puppet-thing with its strings severed and no longer desired for use, his eyes reddened and fixed on point beyond horizon, traces of blood-red liquid on his half-closed eyelids, a half-empty bottle of a hard drink clutched in his rigid hand. He wants to say something badly, something that would catch Uchiha's attention, but instead of matter-of-factual business talk all he manages to muster is: "You will catch a cold like that."

Uchiha glances at him, as if seeing Hashirama first time in his life. No recognition registers in his eyes which are devoid of any emotion. "I have never once thought you have an inclination to...", he gestures his hand as if trying to sound as correct as possible, "...detrimental activities." Surprisingly, a reply comes, as if the trace of concern in his voice provoked some strings in the man next to him.

"_You_ have no room to judge me".

It's straight to the point, harsh and ultimately true; but just as ultimately it is forgivable. Something about his tone makes Hashirama give in and forfeit this soon-to-start argument, "Yes, you are...right". He casts him another glance and lowers his head, "..Madara-san?"

"Why are you here? Is this Senju's way of mocking week of the dead or just adding insult to the injury?", an undertow of jibe in his tone is present like always, despite the alcohol and seemingly complete apathy. Hashirama lets out a sigh and watches as his breath is getting white, everything official in his mind escaping with it.

"I'm deeply sorry. Sorry for your brother...this whole situation is...is pretty doleful. I have already sent my official apologies to your clan elders and we signed your petition for one week armistice...and hell I'm here because I want to stop it all for good, I know I'm tired and you're tired of this conflict and those who push on with it...look I know this may not be the right moment but it's possible this is the only chance we will ever be willing to discuss..."

It was nothing like he imagined it would be, words merely escaping his lips and for a change it seemed _perfectly right_.

"It was an assassination", absentmindedly mutters Madara.

"I beg you pardon?", thread of thought lost.

"Izuna."

"..Why?"

"Some rats are looking for a coup-d'etat", the drop of _that_ word sends ripples across the surface of older man's mind.

" You mean...", his head snaps up, brows apologetically raised, "some clan orchestrates to overthrow you? How..?"

"By framing", he cuts in, coarse and filled with sudden hints of poorly suppressed anger. "It was Uchiha who did this. Izuna wouldn't have got his guard down, even blind."

The silence fills itself with sounds alien to this conversation, a wind howling and clamour of the blacksmith's anvil still audible in the direction of camp. His last sentence sets Senju's features in shock, its sense only starting to sink in his head. Suddenly the stark air in the camp and blood on his eyes click together as perfectly matched jigsaw-puzzle. "Does that mean...?"

"...His death was to be blamed on me...so they could come later and demand my blood in retribution.." , Madara chuckles bitterly, a trace of vindication momentarily sparking in his obscure irises, "... but til now my demon takes everything dear from me as an obeisance for my survival."

For the first time, he has nothing to say right away, and is unsure if what he hears is true. He simply searches for layers of meaning in his sedated steel-grey eyes and afterward -

The buckle holding his cloak clacks, screeches and disconnects, thick wool-woven cloth wrapping around Madara's shoulders like a warm wing of a bird of a feather.

"The demon lives for only as long as we feed it."

Face flushed, mouth slightly agape – just like _that_ time. And in that second he only wishes he had done it sooner.

* * *

><p>X<p>

In three weeks from now the spring will come. In three weeks they will both put their signature on a condemned piece of parchment and peace will _break loose. _He will watch Madara handle the brushwork with unanticipated grace and accuracy, his writing neat and immaculate, so much unlike his very own when his fingers struggled to put his thoughts and visions onto paper. There is something like defiant grief in his fine features but he holds it together, stature official and noticeably rigid like a tense string of a harp – taut and stalwart – but ready to snap and coil any given moment.

When they shake hands – he thinks it was bound to happen one day – he finds himself trying to look beaming and heartily, yet not for the sake of convincing his own people. He does it for Madara. The latter only tightens the grip on his palm, as if trying to turn his hand into a bone meal in the last attempt to payback for everything that went wrong.

He bears with discomfort and still _beams _as to declare, _blame me if you want. _And yet the deal is on and for the first time he wonders if it was ultimately Madara's decision or Uchiha's demand. He wonders if it was a surrender or an escape in his former enemy's eyes.

In days to come they form an alliance, old misconceptions and grudges neatly tucked away under dry layers of parchment and seals and inked signatures standing in for peace, knives hidden behind the backs now bearing allied uniforms and insignias.

He treats Uchiha like an old friend, making it look like months of fighting never happened and even if so, the animosity was too short-lived to affect them both profoundly. He smiles and waves to greet him, and pats him on the back and fully expects him to open up, – that never happens of course. Months later and Madara is still the same old mystery wrapped in persistent nonsense tales. He still flushes though, like before, same parted lips, same glimmer of awe in his eyes when Mokuton performs its marvels; a look Hashirama came to love unbeknownst to himself. In times like this he would let his mind drift freely to stranger shores and just as well he would let it find all shades of meaning to it. Acknowledgment. Admiration. Interest. Still even now the Uchiha takes a care to estrange himself from nearly everyone and maybe he does it because demons like solitude. Maybe because it is clan's deep-rooted fear that feeds it. Maybe because Uchiha is like a stray cat who wanders streets alone; seen by everyone and known for its withdrawn claws, only a minute away from hissing and attacking, sharp and mean, and all sorts of risks involved. Nobody wants to take stray home.

* * *

><p>XI<p>

A kiss comes only when all words are exhausted, all reasons insufficient, all arguments unheard – or perchance just willingly discarded. It is both means and the result, and perhaps a long suppressed desire. The younger man is unresponsive at first, frozen with shock too much to speak, much less to move. He stays still next time and almost all the way through; it's only seconds before Hashirama pulls away when his eyelids flutter closed and head drops back and he actually starts responding. Moments later he pushes himself away, staggering as if he was drunk, taking few steps back with his face wry.

"Wait", there's confused rashness in Hashirama's voice as he raises his hand to reach younger man's wrist – but he catches him by sleeve and pulls him back. The Uchiha thrashes, internal battles still in heat, but he restrains his demon rather soon, pressing his forehead against Hashirama's jagged collarbone and says it only once – casually, as if stating an evident fact – before he wearily exhales.

"You smell of them."

He will sigh sharply as his former enemy traces his tongue against rough pattern of his skin, treating it gently but methodically, almost like a scholar brushing away layers of dust and soil from a precious artifact, buried in places where light does not reach, but now being excavated and rediscovered anew. Somewhere in instants and days between soft sounds escaping Madara's lips and his eyelashes fluttering like butterflies, Hashirama learns things hidden and concealed like splinters of past. The kaleidoscope of his eyes, the demons, Izuna, paranoia. Truth slides from his tongue as if nothing else can hold it, the walls around unfathomable secrets tumbling down like house of cards. His face contorts half in pleasure, half in pain and he feels like nothing but a helpless little fly caught in the ridiculously lustrous cobwebs of sleek chocolate hair. A dish to be devoured for its sloppiness. It doesn't matter now though, he will decide; for now he doesn't mind. This tameness will forever burn its image into Hashirama's mind and with its brand the parasite of guilt will momentarily disappear. For now, it doesn't matter though. For now, it's nothing more than an act of penance.

* * *

><p>XII<p>

In a month just about everything in a newly formed village will smell of them, or so Madara would whisper under his breath, hateful and misanthropic like never before; his behavior unsettled, unstable even, as it would be if he caught a venomous spider creeping into his perfectly isolated little world. The accusations are silent, but it's as good as it takes. Clan shuns him; it's not in the open but he is already excommunicated as such.

The monument to the fallen now stands apart from Konoha; and in its own way it is a harsh reminder of their unimportance. A part that has nothing to do with the whole. A thing to be looked over and discarded. After all, it is a new world and old era remnants have no right to dwell within Konoha's walls.

Madara's eyes are filled with carmine again, but it's not the former ominous glow but dull and bloody tears which run down his cheeks. That very minute he wouldn't be able to tell who is crying, he for being silently disowned and forsaken by the peace he had made, or maybe Izuna suffering injustice and betrayal even in the afterlife. Maybe they are one now. Maybe he's feeling for both of them.

The tombstone is cold and unyielding against vertebrae of his spine. Its sallow scent bears no resemblance neither to warm smell of fire nor to soothing smell of earth. It simply smells with ghosts. With burial urns smashed and ravaged, mangled and afterward mixed into a single congeneric mass. With things no longer precious. Chills running down his spine make his whole body go numb and at this point he can almost feel Izuna's ghostly fingers reaching him, both accusatory and consoling. Despair at realization of truth is of different color than blind madness or, for that matter, paranoia creeping under his skin. Blindness is dazzling white like thick mist; it is madness that leaves jet-black inkblots within it. Desperation is something colorless and adherent, nearly fluid and ready to draw in any given moment. Very much akin to thin film spread across liquid surface – taut and resilient at a glance, – however as soon as puncture occurs, there is only drowning. Right now it fills his lungs like water, and as any drowning man he's grasping at straws. Eventually his chest is full and he lets out a cough, but only a choked sob follows. Lines jade, stir, blend and desolate; in the end he can no longer distinguish if those ghostly touches are the result or the cause of this slow heartache.

In another week hokage will be chosen and a medley of both relief and hatred simultaneously will wash over him like tides of tsunami, carrying away the doubts past months have brought him just as it will carry away the splinters of his now broken hopes. A unanimous decision, his unanimous loss and all at the same time his unanimous victory – he never _wished_ for the title, not in this life. With that at least he is free.

* * *

><p>XIII<p>

"Wait."

Still the same hand reaches to close its fingers over his wrist. He slaps it away like a pest or a beggar's hand, not gracing the other man with any words, yet ready to jostle and shriek only to not be touched by those _tainted_ digits again.

"Why?"

The dumbfounded remark makes him turn his head towards the slightly gasping man in the white robes. His eyes leer with venom at the absurdity of the very idea – _even attire decorated with flames of all things. _Like a trophy. A burial shroud engulfed by pyre. The end.

"You smell of them."

This time it's hostile and resembles a hiss more than anything else. The kiss that follows is spiteful and virulent like a viper's bite, an unkind parody of a goodbye before he pushes away and starts running.

And as he dashes forward, his only wish is that he had wised up and acted earlier.


End file.
